I still remember
why summer had died that year, and
how the cities were drowning within the tears
dripping from those eyes
until the clouds of hope in her heart
ran out of steam.
People said the unsolicited things,
but no one tried to read the epitaph
written on her thoughts.
For me,
winter is the season when souls catch the fire,
yet she is hiding from the sun under the blanket
made from the tortures of her past.
Time flies by so fast...
Maybe,
when spring would be creating life
out of its dream,
she could find a way to free herself
from the cage of elegy
and starts soaring
above the island of unending desires
to make a nest on branches of poetry
in between the trees of romance.
